And Sweet was the Smell of Spring
by Daastan Go
Summary: She lost herself in the sweet season of spring.


**And Sweet was the Smell of Spring**

 **Disclaimer** : Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.

 **Warning** : Morbid Content. Reader discretion is advised.

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The walk back home was a sad one. Where was her heart bound? She did not know: she had never known its path. Spring came and went, but her heart was left without the essence of its springing sensations. How terrible for her that she shared a name with a flower that bloomed pretty every season, relished the taste of rapture she never knew.

And she recalled the day when she had lost her virtue after pining for him to return her wants for so long. She was eighteen, older than most, and had desired to keep herself pure for him (a silly sentiment, she thought), but even when he was a boy of fourteen, he knew how to reject her heart, her advances. He always broke her—always.

Her steps, slow and uneasy, lead her to her room, thoughts trapped in the season of spring. Spring's sun, benign, had touched the blooming skin, washed away the burden in a stream of bright light. Breaths of air laden with new flora, it was time for the wild spirit to be set free into the arms of primal callings.

Outside, ground was abloom—many colours of pleasures, a feast for the eyes. Smells, sweet and enchanting, enticed the flesh and the slumbering animal to shudder and come forth—to take over this coil in mad ways.

Yet inside she lay wide open, thighs spread obscenely on his knees, flesh blushing in the vocative candle light, lips and cheeks flower coloured in the ghastly flicker. A cold darkness sat upon the room, hiding her and him away.

Young and naïve still, yet Nature did not care: she had Bled from the deep groove between her plump thighs one day, and red trailed down her legs as an obscene show of that place's ripened state—red against soft-pink, an invitation to invade that place with hard strokes, leave the seed, watch her belly grow. Nature was a cruel master—an invasion, a fate of her form.

And she had surrendered to him, her growing body akin to a man's feeble imitation of a little nymph. He bent over her and licked a wet line from tiny pebbles on her breast to the tight, tight cunt right between her legs. It was moist and welcoming to take him in, lips swollen, fleshes open to show him that heated state for fucking.

Scents and fluids came from that place, and the still air soaked them up to become a restless harlot in heat—sweet, sweeter, so wild. Wood absorbed the groans, pink hair silent on the dirty planks.

A thin streamlet came down from the crack in the roof and fell on her pronounced ribcage; it travelled between the shallow grooves, like roads, in her torso. Big hands, sure hands, drew sensations from the tense muscles in light strokes; and when it breached Nature's barrier, which sat before the deeper passage to her womb, an infernal pool was drawn from her body . . . skin shivering, eyes stinging, cunt vibrating against repeated intrusions.

His white hair appeared grey in the dimming light—a spectre in the shadows. A haze came over her eyes and pleasure stung the cunt to press harder. He groaned, and in his deep eyes that shone with a strange attachment now, she saw not the boy she desired, but a man. The one with hair of gold on his head was too blundering for this old ritual, a fool, a nosy boy back then.

She could barely sustain the grimace in his expression: he was pushing harder, and with wild strokes, into her cunt to find contentment for his body. When it had risen from between his thighs, she had been surprised, afraid even; but now, her body welcomed the vibrations it enjoyed. Her heart did not; no, it feared and caved in upon itself, a fallen tomb, to know of the mishap—she was too young to watch her belly swell for him! Thin lips had wrapped around the moist crown, taken all of him in to feel the hot and shuddering thing slide back and forth inside her warm and smooth throat—a vulgar irrumation.

Yet the red in _that_ boy's eye had tumbled into her dreams: a red that could fill her body and soul with unending want, but it was a cold red. Her body ached and rejected the reveries, in which she busied herself daily and nightly, a silly girl's fancy as he walked ahead aloof in front, steps stiff and sure.

Breaths scalded her throat and tears went down her cheeks, her skin a scorching inferno of primal urgencies—release, cum, expel. Fluids sprung from his cock and filled her womb to its depths and pooled as white on the dirty brown inside the dark. She was his, marked like a whelp in weak moments of arousal, and she did not want to be his . . .

Her limbs started trembling, fighting, ears listening to the old house that yawned around her, and then her cry wore off in a collection of primal screams that he had to put his hand on her glazed lips to silence her—she had cum . . . naughty, filthy, decadent creature. What a rutting whelp in the season of heat and desire, but _he_ was still not hers—yet it was spring . . .

Yes, spring came and spring went, but he was never hers. Never. Why? She always wanted to know. He slept and rutted with women, yet he never wanted to touch her, come closer, fuck her. What did she not possess that others did? What? Though her face less than pretty, her body less than womanly, she was not unsightly for he had bedded women less remarkable than she. Men found her physiognomy comely—they pursued her: he never looked at her in a manner of a man who possessed a natural desire to lay—some of it, at least. His constant rejections of her made her question her worth, made her weep.

Things had fallen into decay in this old, old house of longings. Then, as though trying to reject her thoughts of him, she proceeded on to her own room. Sheets lay rumpled on the bed. She had not been here in days. Her father needed her now, so she spent most of her days in her parents' home.

A smell of neglect, dusted up by her feet, rose up from the wooden floor; she would have to clean this place come tomorrow. She flopped down on the bed, which faced the mirror, and gazed at her reflection: an attractive young woman gazed back at her, her countenance affected by the usual emotions she was a thrall to.

Slowly, Sakura reached into her pocket and took out the phial of want's poison—it was pink and shiny, like her hair. She removed the top, took a whiff of it, and placed the top back on. A sensation rushed at her, and her mind flashed into a black-out. All colours vanished, and the phial dropped from her shivering hands to fall down on the floor with a soft clink.

She fell onto her right side, eyes still on the mirage in the mirror, hand reaching between her thighs in search of her pleasures. Then, from the left side, an airy shadow moved into the mirror: what a beautiful mien, white and perfect. He laid his hand on her stomach, other hand trailing down to locate the source of her pleasures; and it was throbbing there still.

Colours moved across the ceiling, and a lovely intrusion split her open from her flesh down to the soul: rhythm, beauty, colours. An explosion of lights and scents, and nothing was as profound as the core that took a part of him in, so that he was her and she him.

Upon the air, smells vibrated, smells of rot and neglect. Pipes rusted through, metal bent, wood hollow, such was the state of things in her fragile mind; it was all heavy decay and light festering in the walls and rooms; but she was safe, feeling undulations deep in her flesh from the intrusions. And it dripped down on the floor, blood from maidens and men alike, but this time, it was colourless, viscous strings, pleasure's gift.

Deeper his finger went, worming into the slimy wetness to touch the damp walls of secrets, but in the end, everything was a shape-less smudge on the mirror—belief, make-believe toys from illusions; and she whispered, enamoured, bewitched, stupefied by poisons and him, finger slick and quick in its motions: "S-Sasuke—come into me— _please_ . . . "

Yes, sweet was the smell of spring he exuded—always. Then, _finally_ , she was undone . . .

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 **The End**


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